


Empire Of Our Own

by CattyJay



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Blood, Established Relationship, F/F, Mild Gore, Minor Character Death, Slave Trade, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-07
Updated: 2020-03-05
Packaged: 2021-02-25 15:34:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,827
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22158460
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CattyJay/pseuds/CattyJay
Summary: Lexa is a beloved gladiator of the Colosseum, Alexandria, the one they call the Commander. She has earned the respect of the people a hundred times over. But will her love for the Emperor's daughter get in the way of the freedom that is rightfully hers?  Or can it defy an Empire?Or the Gladiator AU
Relationships: Clarke Griffin & Lexa, Clarke Griffin/Lexa
Comments: 37
Kudos: 273





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Pro-tip: I wrote this listening to the Gladiator soundtrack (the slower pieces such as Wheat, Prodigy and Sorrow) so you can play it as you read if you wish.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story is based off another fic I wrote many years ago that I never got to expand on like I’d planned, so I’ve decided to breathe new life into it in The 100 universe.

Lexa could feel the roar of the crowd as it echoed through the shadows below the Colosseum. It rang in her ears, and had her gripping the hilt of her sword tighter. She stuck the point to the ground and spun it in the loose dirt beneath her feet, it flicking around in her palm and kicking up a cloud of white dust. The high-pitched keen of the blade was drowned out by the sixty thousand people all chanting her name. It was like a heartbeat. A rhythm, one she could feel beneath her leather sandals.

She closed her eyes and listened, taking measured breaths that matched the drumming of their feet. Any minute the gates would be drawn and a guard would come for her. She'd be taken out into the blinding sunlight and onto the white sand of the arena floor. But for now she sat in silence, alone as she waited, none of her fellow gladiators crowding the dark underbelly.

She could her the booming voice announcing the day's games. It never failed to make her heart race beneath the thick leather of her dark armour, nerves plaguing her stomach. But she had no choice; she was a slave at the mercy of the Empire. And if that meant she had to kill for their entertainment, then she would kill.

And kill she did.

A hundred men and women had fallen by her hand. It was a number she learnt not to think about. Each one of them was a son and a daughter, a father, brother, sister, or mother. They all had families they'd never return to. Never embrace again. They’d never feel the sun on their skin, or breathe air free from chains.

But she knew she'd be seeing them again in the next life. And she hoped against all hope that they would welcome her without malice, or hatred at her actions, but rather embrace her with open arms. It was a fool's hope, but she had to believe they would forgive her for what she had done, as she would them.

The distant grinding clunk of gears sounded to her right, the shadows disappearing in the light of the day. A guard approached her, pole arm in hand. She leant forward and retrieved her second sword from the wooden rack in front of her and got to her feet. Her swords were heavy, the black hilts firmly in each hand. Silently, the man gripped his weapon and motioned her forward with the sharp tip.

Her black leather skirt hit her legs with each step she took, and her sandals crunched against the sand. She moved swiftly from the darkness of the dungeon and took to the ramp below the arena. As she made her way up the steep incline, her muscular thighs flexed beneath her armour, the silk material of her tunic smooth against her heated skin.

The applause from the crowd was getting louder the closer she came, the vibrations disturbing the rough dirt under foot. The sound enveloped her mind until it was all she heard. The heartbeat. The rhythm. It was deafening.

The man halted, still in the shadow of the structure at the very tip of the long ramp. She stood next to him and looked out upon the white sand, her vision narrowed by her helmet. It was completely baron except for several stone pillars that shot into the sky, creating a ring in the sand with thick iron chains hanging from its high iron rings.

Depending on the day or the festivities, there could be any number of obstacles set out for the combatants to use to their advantage. But those were usually reserved for the larger tournaments.

Today was different.

Today she would be facing a gladiator not unlike herself. He was moments away from his freedom, the moment when the Emperor decided he'd earned his right to leave and start his life as a free man. But she knew how it could end so quickly. One wrong move and it didn't matter how close you were. She'd seen that fate fall to so many of her fellow gladiators, ones she felt had earned their right to freedom ten times over. But once you left the shadows and took to the sand, nothing else mattered but the sword in your hand, not the man or woman on the tip of it.

Out in the arena, the Emperor had called for silence. It went eerie quiet. She could hear the distant caw of birds flying overhead, and the chatter from the crowded streets outside. Any moment her name would be called to the sound of rapturous applause, and she would have to leave the safety of the shadows for the sunlight beyond. She took two calming breaths, her ears pricked, waiting for those words.

"Welcome, welcome," the gruff voice boomed from the raised balcony above her. "We are gathered here today in celebration. For this day is the day a gladiator will earn their freedom, or fall at the hand of another. He has more than proven himself over the years in front of you all, so let's see if he leaves a free man in this life, or the next."

The guard eyed her cautiously, the sound of sixty thousand echoing down the wide passageway. She stepped from one foot to the other, warming her muscles as she waited in the shade of the high arch. It seemed to take an eternity, but once those words hit her, she could feel the change in air.

"Ladies and gentlemen, I give you your Commander," the man announced to the ear splitting sound of applause. “Alexandria!”

She'd crossed the invisible threshold into the monstrous arena a hundred times, but it always seemed like the first. Thousands upon thousands of men and women, poor and wealthy were stood in ovation as she entered. Red petals fell upon her shoulders from high above. It was bright, the heat of the sand already creating a light sheen of sweat over her skin.

She walked to the centre and faced the large balcony overhead. Any moment her opponent would be introduced; the man she would be forced to kill. So she knelt down on one knee, driving one of her blades into the dirt and bowed her head to the man seated at the edge, his arms resting wide and welcoming. He was her Emperor and she was his slave. Ever since she was 8 years old. And when she turned 16 he had her competing in the games. Now at 23 she'd more than earned her right to leave this life. But it was his decision if and when he let her go. Marcus. Her Emperor. Her master. Her captor.

But it was also _hers_.

Lexa raised her head ever slightly, her eyes meeting the bright blue of the girl to his right. She wore navy silk, her blonde hair flowing over her shoulders, held together by gold pins. Her perfect lips pulled up in the corners, but she wasn't smiling, her features holding indifference.

The girl was beautiful by every definition of the word. She looked down on her from the seat next to the Emperor, those eyes holding her there as Lexa’s knee scrapped against the rough sand.

Clarke.

The gate behind her clunked heavily and the announcer’s voice was drowned out by the blood that rushed to her ears. The crowd dimmed as she got to her feet, dislodging her sword and gripping it tightly. She looked back up to the girl, wondering if this was the last time she would see those beautiful eyes shine in the sunlight, or see that hint of a smile on those lips. She took a breath, Clarke giving her a short almost non-existent nod of encouragement.

It was enough.

It travelled up from her chest and out towards her arms and down through her legs, steadying her heart.

Lexa turned her back on her and looked upon the gate that was being drawn on the other side of the arena. It was slow, but she knew what faced her on the other side. She'd seen this man fight. She'd studied his movements and his stance in case this day ever arrived. His strike was heavy and true. He was strong, but his armour was cumbersome, and it laboured the swing of his sword and prevented him from gaining any real ground.

There was a reason Lexa was so loved and respected by the crowd. She was quick and agile, light on her feet. And she could make quick work of those four times her size. There was just less of her to hit. Those who had only heard whispers of her name would look upon this fight as a mockery of the games, seeing no discernable way she could win. But that is why people came from all over to see her fight, and why she was chosen by her Emperor to be his opponent. She was his Commander, deadly and merciless.

She gripped her helmet and shucked it off, revealing long braided hair. The hot metal was stifling, and obscured her vision. It was worn only as a mark of her status among her fellow gladiators. She didn’t need it. It hit the ground just as the man stepped into view across the way. He was hulking, his full body armour glinting in the sunlight. Lexa could almost feel his heavy footsteps on the sand as he entered the arena, his sword and shield held high.

There weren't many entry points when it came to his armour, just a small gap where his helmet met his chest plate and the area under his arms. It wasn't much, but Lexa only needed one opening, no matter the placement or size.

She strafed to the left, keeping an easy distance between them. She stayed low as she moved, but didn't once break eye contact, the man standing his ground. He cut lines through the air with his sword, watching her carefully, his face completely covered by his helmet. It was disconcerting. Lexa could usually stay one step ahead of her opponent by the way they held their eyes, having the ability to read their next move in their features. But to him she was completely blind, having to rely on instinct and training alone.

The sound of the crowd was still thunderous and spurred her on, Lexa going in for the first strike. It connected with his shield, before she parried right and rolled out of the way of his broad swing. He hit air, Lexa already behind him, steadying herself for the next blow. She came in fast from his left side, the man twirling and meeting her left sword halfway.

It was like an elaborate dance, one she'd completed countless times. When he would move forward she would step back, meeting him every time, both her swords coming down in quick succession.

Some people she could wait out. Dodge and duck until fatigue hit them, but not this man. He had too much to lose. He was so close, closer than most gladiators ever came to tasting freedom. He was coming at her with everything and not letting up. So she dodged and parried, waiting for an in. She only needed one shot.

She deflected his heavy blows, the high keen of steel on steel reverberating into the midday air. She sidestepped, always staying on an angle to him. If he got in a direct hit she would be forced to block, and his strength would out weigh hers by at least 200 pounds. So she steered clear, continuously circling him, her eyes never wavering.

Every swing and every strike that made contact the crowd would hiss and applaud, the men and women in the stands completely transfixed by the pair. Every few blows, she'd be turned around, the large stone balcony coming into view. She registered those eyes watching her; back tight against her seat, her gaze following the fight intently.

Lexa wasn't sure if this gave her the courage she needed, or made her lose composure. It always seemed to be both. But being the daughter of the Emperor’s wife she was required to watch and support his decision to hold these games. So a part of Lexa had learned to block her out when her hands gripped steel and leather, and someone was coming at her, arms at the ready. It was all she could do to tear her eyes away from that beautiful face.

Her breathing was becoming heavy and laboured, sweat pouring down her back. The man was exerting with every swing, his movements frustrated and clipped. He couldn't get a clear shot to her, Lexa always a step ahead. She ducked under his arm, his blade hitting dirt and kicking up a cloud of dust, Lexa already ten feet away.

It went on like this, neither able to gain any real advantage on the other. She would deflect with one sword and strike with the next, then roll away from his powerful thrust. That was until the towering man swung his blade wide, allowing her an in.

Lexa went low, skidding against the sand beneath him. But the man pre-empted her movement, slamming his shield down into the sand. She felt hot metal bite into her left bicep, the searing pain causing her to cry out. Her left sword fell to the ground, but she kept a firm grip on her right and thrust it under his arm, and into the gap in his armour. It dug deep, bright red blood pouring over the blade and over her bound hand.

He collapsed to his knees, his whole body trembling, and his weapons falling from his grasp. Lexa's legs had given out under her, laying flat on the sand with her hand still on her sword.

He choked, blood pouring down his neck and soaking the white of the arena floor. Her whole arm was drenched in a mixture of her blood and his, but the pain from her wound was numbed by the adrenaline that coursed through her veins. She let out a shaky breath and got to her feet, dust and dirt sticking to her skin in patches.

She turned her back on the disarmed gladiator still spluttering on his knees. She bent down and retrieved her second sword from where it hand fallen from her hand moments ago. She could have just gathered his in exchange, but there was nothing more insulting than finishing a man with his own weapon, and he deserved more than that fate.

With her hand gripping her black sword, she looked back up at her Emperor, silently asking for his decision. He had a look of pride on his face, though it was tainted by disappointment, but not in her. He knew when he chose her that this would be the result. Lexa merely assumed that for once the Emperor might have liked to see one of his slaves walk free. She had watched him over the years and gathered that he held a high respect for this man; he wouldn't have been giving him his freedom if he didn't.

The crowd roared, chanting _kill, kill, kill_ over and over. It was mind numbing, but she concentrated on his outstretched hand, his thumb turned out. Lexa forced herself not to look at the relief that was flooding Clarke's face, or the slightest of smiles that graced her lips. Her eyes stayed on the Emperor until after a moment he flicked his finger down, the rest of the crowd screaming their misplaced encouragement.

She mightn't have bothered asking for his verdict; she knew this was the man's fate. Seldom did the Emperor show mercy to a man that was within an inch of his life. The merciful course would be to put him out of his agony. So Lexa paced back over to him, the man still on his knees, gasping for air that was no longer his. Bright red bubbled behind his helmet as she placed the tip of her blade just above his breastplate. He let out a choking whimper, Lexa taking a breath and looking back up at Clarke.

Her lips were pulled down, her hands now resting on the stone ledge of the balcony. She swallowed heavily, before giving her a short nod. Turning back to the man, Lexa gripped the handle in one hand and covered the pommel with the other. She saw his eyes close beneath the slits in his helmet, his arms going slack at his sides.

"Forgive me," she whispered, before plunging her sword deep into his throat.

* * *

"Gladiator."

Her eyes snapped open to be met with a palace guard in dark armour and flowing robes. He held a spear in his hand, waiting at attention until she sat up from her bed and got to her feet. Her left arm ached as she stood, jagged black stitches helping her new wound to heal. A thin white cloth was tied over it, a spot of dried blood soaked into the material.

The man took his eyes off it and motioned her forward. A few of her fellow gladiators that shared her cell roused and looked on in curiosity as she was escorted from the room.

It was dark out, the cool night air fresh against her bare skin. Goose bumps rose over her arms as she walked down a passageway and began taking stairs to the lower holding cells. The guard stayed behind her, Lexa hearing his footfalls on the stone steps. The air was becoming stagnant the further she delved. It was damp and musty, but she pushed forward, her sandals echoing off the cold walls. She hit the bottom, the passage opening up into a cell with no windows except for the small grate on the wooden door.

She walked through once the door was unlocked. The room was empty, a set of chains bolted to the floor, the metal tarnished and heavy. Without being told she wandered over to them and stood, her arms loosely by her sides. The guard bent down, and picked up one of the cuffs and slipped it onto her wrist, screwing it tight. He repeated it with the other side and stepped back against the open doorway.

A hooded figure appeared beside him, pushing past to stand just beyond the entrance.

"Leave us."

The guard did as he was told, closing the door behind him and sliding the bar into place. Once they were alone the figure pulled back the hood to reveal pale skin and a pair of startling blue eyes. A smile stretched across Lexa's lips, bowing her head slightly.

"Your Majesty," she intoned, pulling gently against her chains. They were looped into a ring on the ground, Lexa not able to move one hand without the other getting pulled backwards. Clarke paced forward out of the shadows and into the light of a nearby flickering candle. She was as beautiful now as she was in the daylight, even when surrounded by filthy stone walls.

"Why must you persist in calling me that?" she asked.

"Because I know better than to talk down to a future Empress," Lexa replied coolly.

Clarke took a step closer. The movement stirred the air around her, Clarke's heavenly scent reaching Lexa's nose and filling her senses. She pulled uselessly against her restraints, wishing she could get closer to her. She needn't have worried though, Clarke walking the rest of the way over to her until there were only inches between them.

She reached up a hand, her eyes fixed on the bandage on Lexa's arm. Her fingers brushed over her skin and all the way up to the cut. The soft touch sent tingles all over her body and had her eyes closing gently against the sensation.

"Does it hurt?"

"I've had worse," Lexa breathed, those fingers like fire against her skin.

"Don't remind me," Clarke murmured softly, her hands dropping to Lexa’s midriff. They grazed along the raised scar beneath her tunic, just below her ribcage, the skin rough and jagged where the wound had healed. "That was one of the scariest moments of my life."

"That was the first night you came to see me," Lexa recalled, Clarke's eyes flicking back up to meet hers. They shined in the dim light, her lips turning down at the corners.

"I thought you were dead."

"I think I was," Lexa mused, placing her left hand over Clarke's and holding it against her toned stomach, her right getting pulled tightly behind her back. "But then you saved me."

Lexa leaned forward and brushed her nose gently against Clarke's; her skin smelled so good, like the most exotic flower with a hint of spice. It made Lexa's head swim and her breath come quicker before closing the gap.

Those soft lips melted against hers, Clarke taking in a sharp breath. Lexa moved her left hand to cup her face, the rough palm of her calloused hand brushing against smooth skin. She pushed further forward, taking her bottom lip into her mouth and sucking gently. It was truly maddening, her right wrist pulling against the metal cuff. Clarke moaned softly, breaking the kiss and leaning her forehead against Lexa's, exhaling heavily.

"Do you ever wonder what would happen to us if someone was to find out?" Lexa asked breathlessly. Clarke pulled back, her eyes searching her face for a moment.

"You are Marcus’ pride and joy," she stated simply, moving around to Lexa's back and running a finger along her heated skin. "And mine." Lexa felt those lips press to her bare skin, sending a shiver down her back. Clarke brushed them further up, before resting her head against her shoulder. "So, I don't like to think about it," she finally mumbled into the thin material. "It scares me."

Clarke looped her arms around Lexa’s abdomen and held tight, her face nuzzling into the crook of her neck. Lexa brought her hand up and placed it over hers, her sun-kissed skin stark against Clarke's pale arm.

"What will we do once I win my freedom?" Lexa asked.

It was a question she'd asked herself a thousand times. It kept her up at night in her cell, staring at the dark walls. It wasn't exactly an ideal situation the two had found themselves in.

"I will convince the Emperor to take you on as my personal guard," Clarke answered simply, Lexa feeling the upturn of her lips as they pressed to her neck. "That way no one will ever question why your eyes near leave me."

Lexa's hands clenched at the teasing words, as she strained further against her restraints. "You over-estimate the power you have over me, Clarke."

Clarke merely quirked a perfect brow as she came back into view, lit once again by the flickering light of the nearby candle. "We shall see, Commander." She paced back to the barred wooden door. She knocked lightly to alert the nearby guard, before replacing her hood. Clarke inclined her head as she departed. "May we meet again."

Lexa watched her leave back the way she came, her eyes not leaving Clarke until the darkness of the passageway claimed her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The next chapter will introduce more characters (from the tags) to this world beyond just the three in this prologue, especially the other gladiators.


	2. Chapter 2

“Again.”

Lexa shoved Ontari back, and readied her stance. The younger girl narrowed her gaze and bared her teeth, coming at Lexa again. She was all aggression with no finesse, no thought or technique. Lexa knocked her down in three moves, sweeping her legs out from beneath her. She landed hard on her back, the air leaving her lungs.

“You leave yourself open too often. You’re all aggression. Your opponent will see that as weakness and exploit it,” Lexa instructed, pacing away as she spoke. “Again.”

Ontari brushed herself off, and retrieved her wooden sword that had fallen from her grasp. To her credit, Lexa noticed a shift in her demeanour, more calculated, heeding her lesson and putting more thought into her next move.

The sun was high. Children were playing on the busy street outside, some with their small faces pressed up to the bars of the courtyard, watching with excitement and awe in their gaze. The training yard was where all the city’s gladiators lived and died, if they were not fortunate enough to win their freedom, which was seldom the case.

Ontari was one of the newer recruits Indra had secured for her latest trip to the slave markets. She had potential, if she could only control her emotions. She was a survivor though, and that would serve her well in the days to come.

Lexa learnt long ago to not form attachments to those that were brought in; rarely did they survive in this line of work. Indra explained to Lexa once when she’d asked why she subjected people to her own fate. Why continue the cycle. It was a simple reply. It was her want to give people a chance to be free, in a life that never saw that guarantee for people like them. She only wished to give them the tools to survive like she had been given, having won her freedom when she’d shared that very fate years earlier.

So Lexa helped the new recruits train and hone their skills, passing on her knowledge and experience, so one day they might have the same opportunities at freedom. Most combatants were bought as adults and trained for the arena like this; people like Indra, or even Gustus, managing them through their career. But not Lexa. She was the Emperor’s. His champion. She was raised in this life.

She was not strictly imprisoned, and was granted some small freedoms. But she was not permitted to own land, leave the training yard unaccompanied, marry or bear children, or earn a wage outside of being a combatant. She received a small allowance from the Empire, which was enough to survive.

“Why not fight someone who is actually a challenge?”

Lexa shifted her gaze away from Ontari, having just taken her down again. This time having a harder time doing so, something akin to pride sitting in Lexa’s chest.

Her attention landed on Luna, the woman coming forward with a practice sword at her side. Lexa inclined her head toward her, as Ontari stepped aside. “As you wish.”

There were jeers and whistles from the other gladiators, from the children that still stood near the gate watching on in wonderment, as well as a few adults that had been passing by the iron fence and took pause. Both women were known fighters to the rest of Rome, both loved by the people, Luna one of Indra’s best.

The other gladiators were sitting around the edge of courtyard, or sparring with one another, eating and drinking, taking leisure time. Some played games like backgammon and chess on makeshift boards. The mood was jovial. But all eyes shifted to the women as Luna drew closer, circling as Lexa readied herself, spear in hand.

Luna paced forward, her stance and where she placed her footing one of someone with years of experience. But Lexa could still read her, as she could any other. She saw her first move in the way she gripped her sword, and the weight she placed on each foot. The wooden blade streaked toward her chest as she moved to block the lunging attack. She caught it, using her locked spear as leverage, forcing Luna back.

Lexa was nothing if not competitive, something she learned of herself over the years. The challenge spurred her on, advancing on Luna in quick succession. She caught the sword’s edge near her shoulder, her wound aching as her muscle flexed, adrenaline coursing through her system. She went for Luna’s legs, as the other woman parried, her back foot sliding in the loose dirt. Each move was met with precision, like a practiced dance, neither able to gain an advantage on the other. Ontari watched the sparring match from a distance with wide eyes, with something close to admiration.

From the corner of her vision, Lexa caught a glimpse of blonde hair just as Luna’s sword came to a quick halt at her neck, Lexa’s spear tip pressed to Luna’s ribs on her other side. There were cheers from the small crowd as the contest abruptly ended. Luna merely smirked at Lexa as two guards came into the courtyard followed by the Emperor.

Lexa stood back, relaxing her weapon to her side just as Clarke and her mother, Abigail, came into view. Lexa recognised the two guards from the palace, Legate David and his son Nathan, a Centurion for the Imperial Legion.

The courtyard fell silent.

“You may continue,” Marcus bid, approaching Indra. He was in flowing palace robes and dark ceremonial armour, a broadsword at his hip. They spoke in low voices, Clarke’s mother at his side.

But Lexa’s eyes were on Clarke. She was wearing white robes, secured with a golden knot at her waist. Lexa was still slightly winded from her sparring match with Luna, taking measured breaths to control herself.

“Anya.”

The woman stood from the nearby table, placing down her cup and gripping her practice weapon. Lexa nodded toward Ontari, letting Anya know to continue the lesson.

“Come to check on his pet, I see.”

Lexa’s eyes shot in the direction of the comment, as Anya brushed past her. A new recruit of Gustus’, Quint, had a sneer on his lips, speaking under his breath to whoever would listen, just out of earshot of their guests.

Lexa bristled, gritting her teeth. Her grasp on her spear tightened instinctually. She didn’t know him well, but his arrogance was something that would be his downfall in a place like this. She’d seen it countless times before, and he wouldn’t be the last.

Her gaze moved back to her Emperor.

He visited on occasion, keeping his presences real and approachable, making the fighters more willing to please him and approve of the games, if that were possible. He wasn’t a cruel ruler, or without mercy. He loved his people. But he was nothing if not a strategist. Lexa had learned this over the past 15 years that she’d know him.

Clarke was standing back from the discussions, watching the sparring from the safety of her guard’s careful gaze. Lexa ached to go to her. The time they’d spent together was too short and too far between visits. She longed to hold her without prying eyes, touch her the way she’d dreamt of touching her. But Lexa knew it wouldn’t be possible until she was truly free. Clarke couldn’t be seen to be with her without the pretence of visiting the Commander.

Lexa propped her spear up in a nearby rack, and walked over to stand beside Clarke, her eyes on Anya and Ontari. Anya was a harder taskmaster, having Ontari learn through failure. That method had its uses, Lexa could admit.

Lexa inclined her head respectfully. “Your Majesty.”

“Lexa,” Clarke intoned. Her voice was clipped and formal, only holding a hint of what she truly felt. “How’s the arm?”

“Healing.”

It wasn’t uncommon to see Clarke and Lexa speak to each other in a public setting. They weren’t close as children but they knew of each other. Lexa had always been connected to the palace as a slave. And Clarke was the daughter of the Emperor’s most trusted advisor, and now the husband of her mother.

There was a comfortable silence, as they watched the training. Lexa could see Clarke thinking from her peripheral, almost hear the gears turning. Her eyes roamed their surroundings, before her chin tilted in Lexa’s direction.

“Are you ever going to accept Marcus’ offer?” Clarke asked.

Lexa pursed her lips at the question.

She had her own room next door to the training yard, where Indra and Gustus stayed. At times she chose to sleep in the cells with the others, especially leading up to fights. Lexa noticed that it helped with morale. But the Emperor had offered her a place in the palace sometime ago. An offer she declined in favour of living with her fellow gladiators, far from the palace grounds. They were her people. Not those in fancy robes, looking down on the rest of Rome. No matter how comfortable the Emperor made her, she was still his property.

“I like it here,” Lexa responded. “These are my people.”

“Am I not your people?”

Lexa shifted her gaze, making sure no one was within earshot, even the Centurion that stood with his back against the wall behind them. Clarke knew the answer to that question, and knew not to speak of such things in public.

When Lexa didn’t answer, Clarke continued in a low whisper. “I could visit you without the pretence of you being the Emperor’s champion. You wouldn’t need to be chained up like an animal just so I could see you.”

“But that is for your own protection, Your Majesty,” Lexa replied coolly. “Otherwise, there is no telling what I would do.”

She was teasing her, and Clarke knew it.

“You are so stubborn.”

Lexa smirked, dropping her gaze. Lexa chose long ago to not be treated differently, other than taking her own room. If her fellow man were in chains, so she would be too. It was part of the reason she was so respected. If they must be restrained on the occasions where they were visited, then so will she.

“Without the chains, it tells them that I am better than them. That I am not a slave as they are.”

“Doesn’t change how I feel seeing you cuffed to the floor. Not being able to hold you-”

“Clarke,” Lexa warned, her eyes shifting again to the other gladiators, none of them paying the two any mind. This was becoming a very dangerous topic to be having where others could overhear.

Thankfully Marcus chose that moment to return with Abigail, Lexa bending at the knee as he approached, “Your Imperial Majesty.”

“Alexandria. I do hope you are well.” Marcus eyed her arm only for a moment, before turning to his family. “We best be off.”

Clarke nodded, turning on her heel and following her mother, only sparing a glance at Lexa as they left through the front gates with their guards at their side.

“Probably the only time you’ll see the Commander on her knees,” Luna commented lightly with a smirk, one Lexa returned easily enough. “Enjoy it, everyone.”

“I wouldn’t mind seeing that Clarke girl on her knees,” Quint huffed, with a wide grin.

It was instantaneous.

Lexa spun on her heel, landing a foot square to his chest. He fell back in the dirt, Lexa on him before he could realise what had happened, a wooden staff pressed to his throat.

“Another word and I remove your tongue.”

His eyes were wide, but he still had the bravado to clench his jaw.

Blood was rushing in her ears, anger at the man’s words numbing all else until Indra placed a hand on her shoulder. The gesture had Lexa relaxing her grip on the weapon, and backing away.

Lexa placed tangible distance between her and Quint, Gustus chuckling at the stupidity of his new recruit as he stayed lying in the dirt.

Indra hovered over him.

“The only reason you still draw breath, and that I don’t let her kill you, is I may still profit from your death,” Indra murmured. Her tone was low and threatening, but loud enough that everyone standing close could hear. “And you best pray it is not Lexa on the end of your sword when that day comes. I can guarantee you she will not make it quick.”

The man’s pride looked wounded at the owner’s words, but he got to his feet, shoving through the small crowd that had gathered and took a seat at the side of the training yard.

Lexa lowered the staff. She passed it back to the gladiator she had seized it from in her moment of weakness, before her gaze was drawn back toward the iron fence of the training yard.

Clarke was paused by the gate, Nathan at her side. Their eyes meet briefly, that blue striking Lexa where she stood, before Clarke was urged forward by the Centurion, and disappeared into the crowded street.

* * *

She could still remember the bite of the blade that had pierced her skin, and the blood, _her_ blood, staining the white sand. She still remembered Anya finishing their opponent with practiced ease before she could even hit the ground, and hands carrying her out of the arena amidst screams from the crowd. The rest was a blur of faces and sunlight as she floated in and out of consciousness.

She had woken to searing pain and sweat soaked skin, and to starling blue eyes and soft fingertips. Lexa had a damp cloth pressed to her forehead, her abdomen bound with white bandages. She could smell something pungent and wrong in her room, like a balm or salve under the gauze. She couldn’t quite focus her eyes, her sockets feeling heavy and bruised. But everything was Clarke. A girl she didn’t quite know, but had always watched from afar.

She was what Lexa remembered most.

Glimpses of blonde hair flashed in and out of her memory. Of concern creasing perfect skin, and touching perfect lips. Of hushed words by candlelight. These were the images that were seared in with the pain.

When sleep took her, she dreamt of home. Of her family. Of her life before this one. She remembered her mother. She remembered the fields in the spring. Of summers amongst the orchards. Days spent riding horses. A free life. A good life, away from Rome, and the fighting.

But she also remembered the fire, and the screams. She remembered the bodies, charred and unrecognisable. And she remembered Marcus, his hand outstretched toward her like her saviour or death himself come to take her away.

And then nothing. A vast nothing that felt endless and beyond reach. A nothing that stretched until she woke to the bare stone of her bedroom walls, jagged stiches marring her side where the blade had touched her, and nothing else. Like the presence of Clarke had been nothing but a whisper, a ghost as she swam inches away from death.

* * *

Lexa stood with her hands clasped behind her back, as warriors she had witness grow over the years, most of which she had taught, fought for their lives in the pit below. Echo had a bow tightly in her grasp, releasing arrow after arrow at the oncoming gladiators. Ex-soldiers in search of glory and fame. Unfortunate souls that would fall too easily and too fast. Lincoln carried his shield high, deflecting anything that was fired in her direction. Anya and Octavia fought with their back to one another, cutting down men twice their size with practiced ease. And Nyko swung his great axe, cleaving off an outstretched arm, before imbedding his weapon deep in his opponent’s chest.

It was a different view from the balcony than the one from the arena floor below. It felt removed, like that wasn’t the same dirt that she had ended countless lives upon. It felt foreign. But Lexa still watched like she was down there with them. Men and women she’d grown to care about. She felt protective of them, like she _should_ be down their with them, sword in hand.

It was always this way whenever the Emperor had her stand with him as his champion, wearing the armour gifted to her by the Empire. It was dark with silver insignia decorating the shoulders. A symbol of her status, or a mark of his property, depending on how she viewed it.

Lexa felt a sense of pride as she watched the fight unfold below. She saw the theatrics that many of the great fighters in her ranks placed into their games. She knew to draw it out, and to leave them wanting more. After all that was how you earned your freedom, you earned the crowd. You put on a show for them, winning their admiration. Lexa had done this. For years she had done this.

She never questioned her enslavement. Never questioned why she stood on the balcony as the Emperor’s champion, but was still without her freedom. She learnt not to question it, at least out loud. But the thoughts sat low and heavy in her chest. Eating away at her. This life was all she knew, and she did what she had to to survive. But she wanted more, needed more than this life she had been forced into by the man that sat to her right.

He watched the fight intently, his gaze searching the faces of his people. This was how he controlled the masses. With games and distractions. And Lexa couldn’t fault him for it, as much as she disapproved. But this man held the key to her chains, for as long as he so desired to keep her in them.

The Emperor’s high backed chair obscured her view of Clarke, who sat further over on the balcony, watching the games, as was her duty. Lexa didn’t get a chance to get more than a few feet away from her since she was escorted to her place next to the Emperor. And she most likely wouldn’t get another when she was escorted away. But it was enough just to be close to her, as it was enough before Lexa knew what it was like to touch her, and to taste her lips. She would always get another chance to see her again, whether it was from the view below, or the one at her Emperor’s side.

Once the last soldier had fallen, Lexa released the breath she’d been holding since her fellow gladiators had entered. Carnage stained the sand of the arena, and the crowd roared to the celebrations of those who remained. They only suffered two casualties, two that Lexa barely knew and that were too untrained to be in the arena.

She regretfully didn’t know their names, but had seen them around the training yard. A man and a woman that now joined the rest of the fallen. But she whispered a small pray to help them on their way, as she did for all that fell victim to the games.

Games that had claimed so many already, and ones designed to please the very people that it killed.

* * *

“I was a soldier in the Imperial Legion.” Lincoln spoke low as he made a move on one of Nyko’s pieces. “I was left behind in battle. I woke up in a cage with no memory of how I got there. Now I’m back in Rome, still fighting, still in a cage.”

Lexa remained silent, not needing or wanting to share her own story. Not that everyone didn’t seemed to know it anyway, at least slivers of it and small truths. And Lexa let them believe it. Let them think what they wished about her life before this one. Because anything was better than the truth. A truth she wasn’t sure of herself, except for what she saw when she closed her eyes at night.

She was seated at a wooden table in the training yard, Anya and Octavia sitting next to her, while Lincoln and Nyko played a game of checkers. The stars were out, and the street was quiet. A few other fighters were sharing their own tables, with lit braziers littering the courtyard.

“Do you have any family left?” Octavia asked him around a sip of warm cheap wine. A luxury for those who found themselves behind the high fences of the training yard.

“A father, who thinks I’m dead,” Lincoln shrugged. His expression and the small quirk of his lips said that he wouldn’t mind keeping it that way. “What about you, Commander? Any family?”

Lexa looked up at this, meeting his gaze. “None that are still living.”

That much Lexa knew. He nodded quietly to himself, taking a sip from his own cup.

“Well, you’ve got us,” Octavia assured, with a short smile.

“And you better keep it that way, Bloodletter,” Lexa smiled back, before standing up from the table. Octavia looked almost proud at hearing the term that the people had coined for the young gladiator coming from the Commander’s lips. She really was as ruthless as her name suggested when she had a blade in her hand and an enemy at the end of it. It was a sight to behold.

Lexa bid her companions a good night and took the familiar path to her room. As she took to the stone steps, she let her mind wander, her feet carrying her to bed. She thought of her family, the one downstairs, drinking in the moonlight and the ones that had long since passed into memory. And she thought of Clarke.

She remembered the night that she first came to her after her injury. It was a vivid memory, one that felt almost tangible when she closed her eyes. She remembered being called from her sleep, and being led to the cells below the training yard. She remembered the restraints being placed around her wrists, and not knowing the reasons why, or who stood behind the thick wooden door. And she remembered the erratic thrum of her heart when she saw Clarke walk in. The shock she felt as Clarke approached her, her hair and her skin smelling of something entirely too intoxicating. And the feeling of those lips when Clarke kissed her, barely able to greet her before she closed the distance, and buried soft fingertips in her hair.

It felt like a dream that night, and had felt like one since. It was the only thing in her life that held any light. Clarke was her one thing that tore through what she had to do when the deep grind of the arena gates rung in her ears and she was forced into the blinding sunlight with her swords gripped in both hands. Clarke made it somehow forgivable.

She pushed open the door to her room. It was on the second floor, below Indra, the older woman already turned in for the night. Lexa was still gripping the iron latch when her eyes were met with the object of her musings. The sight momentarily paralysed her. Clarke was sat on her bed in dark flowing robes, showing just enough skin to make Lexa breathless.

“How did you get in here?” Lexa managed through her shock.

Clarke smiled, but it didn’t reach her eyes. “Do you really have to ask?”

Lexa nodded to herself. She knew what Clarke was capable of, that she would find a way. This was her city after all. If she didn’t want to be seen or followed, it would be all too easy.

Lexa straightened, her hand still on the door. “What happened to the pretence of visiting the Commander?”

Clarke stood, her blue eyes like the deepest of oceans. “I decided I didn’t care.”

Lexa gripped the latch tighter for a measureless moment, before closing the door behind her and walking to the bed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The next instalment will be from Clarke’s POV


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Was a bit slow in updating this chapter, been doing some writing away from fanfiction the past few weeks…

It was not yet dawn, the sky still a mute and sober blue. Clarke’s fingers brushed over sun kissed skin and explored the once unknown. She knew she should leave before her presence was missed. She’d taken too much time for herself already, memorising Lexa, committing everything about the heavenly woman laying next to her to memory. She drew shapes on bare shoulders, tracing down her back, over perfect hipbones, and up to the nape of her neck. She could feel the taut muscle under her fingertips, the kind that only came from years of bloodshed and war. But that wasn’t who lay before her in the dim light of the slowly rising sun. That part of Lexa had been stripped away as she lay bare, tangled in the sheets next to her.

Clarke’s thoughts were on their night of stolen passion, getting to touch Lexa in the way she’d always craved. It was better than her dreams, dreams that didn’t even scratch the surface of how it felt to hold her, to have those hands touch her in ways no one else’s had. It was intoxicating, and had her unable to remove herself from the moment, unable to leave.

Lexa rolled to her side to look at Clarke, those eyes searching and those lips lifting up in the most quiet of smiles. Lexa reached up a hand, replacing loose strands behind Clarke’s ear that had escaped, blonde hair falling from its knot and framing her face.

“…Clarke.”

The image of Lexa swam in front of her vision, leaving Clarke breathless and her thoughts hazy. Everything was Lexa. Not the Commander, nor the slave. Just Lexa.

“Clarke!”

The vision was dashed away in an instant, leaving a man sitting opposite her holding a quizzical set to his brow. His eyes lifted expectantly as a smile graced his full lips.

“Your move,” he murmured, dark eyes still on her. But they weren’t the green ones that had just clouded her thoughts. Clarke looked down at the chequered board and then back up at Wells, before moving one of her pieces.

She had grown up with Wells, much in the way she had grown up with Lexa. They were both children to key advisors to the Emperor, and senators on the Council. He’d always been a part of her life, and in many ways was her closest friend. They attended lessons together, attended all the same gatherings, and played together when they were young. And as they grew out of childish things, they began playing for strategy and politics, as was custom in the palace.

Most believed it built character, but Clarke knew it only to breed manipulation and deceit.

“Where were you?”

“When?” Clarke asked, looking up at her friend as she took a sip of her wine.

Wells made his next move before answering. “I came by last night, but you weren’t in your chambers.”

Clarke’s stomach fluttered at his words, but it was not his doing. “I couldn’t sleep.”

Wells grinned fondly. “You too?”

Clarke merely returned the sentiment, and continued their game. She didn’t feel the need to explain further. To layer on another lie to what was already something that could never be spoken. Wells knew of her connection to Lexa, but as nothing more than a friendship that had grown out of being around each other as children. He wasn’t aware of the after hours visits, or their relationship more than a palace representative and a slave. No one knew. And if she ever wanted to see Lexa again, no one ever could.

It was more difficult with Wells, however. He had always shown a level of affection toward Clarke, something that she’d rebuffed and not returned countless times. At least in the way the man had hoped. Clarke always knew it was there, simmering just beneath the surface of their friendship, like lightning ready to strike. But it was nothing compared to what she felt for Lexa. Where Wells was lightning, Lexa was the rain. A flood. All encompassing. The feeling could engulf her completely if she let it. And she so desperately wanted to let it.

“I believe that’s game,” Clarke stated as she cornered his last piece, blocking any further plays.

Wells shook his head in disbelief. “You’d make a fine Emperor someday, Your Majesty.”

“I think that particular honour will be with my young brother.”

Wells baulked. “He’s still teething.”

“Ruling is a man’s game, Wells,” Clarke lent, with an apathetic shrug. “Has been since Augustus.”

“For now,” Wells smiled. He proceeded to reset the board, before indicating to it. “Again?”

* * *

Clarke passed by small shop fronts and stalls, her handmaiden, Niylah, at her side. The woman kept stride with Clarke, as she brought her attention to various points of interest along the busy street. Aside from Wells, she was Clarke’s closest companion, and something of a confidant. She was someone who Clarke trusted completely, with every secret bar one. Clarke was safe with her, this much Clarke knew.

The crowd parted like the sea as they moved among the common people. Simple carpets were set down on the sides of busy market streets, with merchants selling their wares. Beautiful fabrics and exquisite pottery, with fresh spices all laid out for those walking by, each boasting something different and new. All of them were eager to impress Clarke, not afraid to request an audience from the Emperor’s daughter.

Nathan was at their back, the legionnaire’s hand gripping the hilt of his sword as they walked. He ushered her further through the crowd, his eyes on the people of Rome as they waved and greeted Clarke with excitement and respect.

They adored her. The people’s Empress, they would say. Her family always saw it as beneficial to the Empire for her to be seen and touched by the common people, to be the face of the palace. Someone they could put their trust in. So she regularly made trips into the heart of the city, talking with merchants and guild representatives, those with influence, reporting back on public opinion.

She detested the idea of being Marcus’ spy, something she flatly refused; he had plenty of men at his disposal for such a task. But she loved her people, and would do anything to see them prosper. She instead took the trips as an opportunity to see the life of those who lived below her balcony, which was a view she hadn’t quite grown used to since the passing of her father, and the subsequent union of her mother and the Emperor.

Clarke exited the markets and neared the familiar iron gates of the city’s training yards. She could hear the general chatter from the combatants, and the clatter of wooden shields and swords mixing in with the babble of the commoners in the streets. She slowed to a stop as she reached the thick bars, peering through to catch a glimpse of her love.

Clarke did this regularly, under the guise of her duty as a palace representative. No one argued to the contrary. That was something that her status granted her, freedom from questioning by any who were not the Emperor. Which was something that Clarke was thankful for, given the circumstances.

It didn’t take her but a moment for her eyes to find the other woman. Lexa had a staff at the ready in the middle of the courtyard, a boy no older than 16 that she knew to be Artigus advancing on the Commander with calculated strides. He was like a young brother to Lexa, a protégé, ever since he arrived in Indra’s care months prior. Lexa was different with him, more caring and particular in her teachings. Clarke saw the bond with every careful strike, and every minute adjustment and instruction Lexa gave. She wanted him to succeed, acting as a proud parent when he did, and scolding him when he didn’t. There was love in every action. Not the kind of love she showed toward Clarke. It was maternal and nurturing. Clarke suspected for sometime that Lexa saw much of herself in the young boy, his freedom also stolen from him before his life had truly begun.

Lexa chose that moment to lift her gaze to meet Clarke. There was brief realisation before her features softened, bowing her head ever so slightly with that quiet smile touching her lips that Clarke had grown to love so dearly. And with that she returned to her lesson, motioning for Artigus to approach again.

She was truly a sight to behold, even in training, grasping a wooden sword instead of a steel one. She was as beautiful and graceful as a dancer, and just as fluid when she moved. Clarke could watch her for hours and still find something new. Much like she did when their bodies had been intertwined, sweat coating their skin, and the cover of darkness shielding them.

Her hand gripped the iron bars, her eyes fixed. Nathan cleared his throat, breaking Clarke from her momentary daze. “Your Majesty, we should keep moving.”

Clarke merely nodded without taking her eyes off Lexa, savouring the woman, before continuing up the busy street, Niylah following closely behind.

* * *

Evening meals were an affair in the palace, something that Clarke hadn’t grown to enjoy. As much as the people loved her, royalty had never sat well with her. She preferred the life of an advisor’s daughter, back when her father was still with them. She missed her family suppers, in their home just inside the palace walls, her mother cooking, as her father regaled tales of Rome’s latest public affairs. There was warmth in that home. Love. Family. Clarke ached for it, craved it as she sat opposite her mother now, with Marcus sitting at the far end of the large gilded table in the grand terrace.

It was covered in enough food to feed the hungry that littered the streets just outside the palace gates. There were fruits, and breads, and meats spread out before her. Clarke’s young brother, Marcus II, sat in his chair next to her mother, the boy no more than a few months past a year. He babbled happily to himself, a grape caught mid-chew between his lips, his tiny fist closed around another.

“How was Council?” Clarke’s mother asked around her next bite, her gaze on her husband.

“Productive,” Marcus responded. “Wells has started attending with his father. He’ll make a good senator someday.” He looked pointedly at Clarke. “He’d make a fine husband too.”

Clarke sighed inwardly, careful to mask her dissatisfaction. There had always been an expectation to marry well and continue the family legacy. It had always been on her shoulders. But now at just over 20 years of age, the pressure was mounting to choose a suitor, and one from the right family. Clarke always felt she had time, especially when her father was still alive. But now it felt like that time was wearing thin.

Clarke swallowed her current mouthful, ignoring the comment. “Does the Senate still support the holding of the games?”

Marcus didn’t appear perturbed by her avoidance. “Very much so. They understand their uses.”

“My father didn’t.”

“Clarke,” her mother chided.

“It’s fine, Abigail,” Marcus smiled. “What will you have your Emperor do? Stop the games? There would be full-scale unrest. They are needed to keep order, unless an alternative is devised.”

But an alternative hadn’t been devised. The Council had done nothing and had changed nothing since the death of her father, Jacob. He was stanchly against the arena games, seeing them as cruel and barbaric. He had always seen a brighter more peaceful future for Rome. But he was alone in his way of thinking. And the more time passed, the more Clarke believed it might have been the reason he was no longer sitting at the table with them.

Clarke picked at her food, before trying a new line of questioning, “Have you thought at all about Alexandria?”

Marcus paused from bringing his next bite to his lips, his brow furrowed in confusion at the change of subject. “What of her?”

“Of where she will go, once her freedom is granted?” Clarke edged carefully. “She cannot go home.”

Clarke knew she was playing with fire. It was a very thin line she was treading mentioning Lexa’s previous life. Few knew the truth of her life before her servitude, and what became of her family. Clarke was convinced that even Lexa didn’t know the full truth, as she rarely spoke of her childhood. The only people who knew were either sworn to secrecy or dead. Or were now sitting at the head of the table.

“It sounds like you have one.”

“You could offer her a place here, among the guard. She is already trained for it.” Clarke tried to sound unaffected and casual, unsure by Marcus’ expression on whether she succeeded.

“Do you forget that she already declined a place here?” Marcus countered, placing down his fork, and interlocking his fingers.

“As a slave, yes,” Clarke pointed out. “I’m sure she would be open to staying if that wasn’t the case.”

The Emperor inclined his head, his gaze narrowing. “Why is it you care so much for Alexandria’s fate?”

Something akin to protectiveness gripped at Clarke. “She’s served this Empire, served _you_ , nearly her whole life. It seems wrong to just throw her out on the streets the moment she is no longer of use to you.”

Clarke could see the warning in her mother’s eyes, Abigail sitting up straighter in her high backed chair. But Clarke ignored it, her attention on Marcus.

“I would hardly call the fame and future fortune she’s earned just by being the Commander simply throwing her out onto the streets,” Marcus stated, before relaxing his posture. “But I am sure she appreciates your concern, Clarke. As do I.”

He nodded softly to himself, and picked his fork back up. Clarke didn’t dare ask when that day would arrive, the day she saw her love freed. She knew not to push it that far. He might be her father now, but he was still the Emperor.

She returned her attention to her food that she had been pushing around her plate up until now. Clarke knew that Marcus cared for Lexa; she could see it in the way he held his eyes when they spoke, and in the gestures he had extended to her throughout her time under the Empire. Clarke only prayed that it was enough.

* * *

Clarke secured the last strands of loose hair with a gold pin, as she looked at her reflection in the full-length vanity in front of her. Niylah was helping her with her long white robes, twisting them intricately and pinning them into place at her shoulder. She was lost in thought. She always was before the games, and before she would be forced onto the arena balcony because of a duty she held to the Empire.

It was on these days that she thought of her father the most, and what he stood for. Clarke was always her father’s daughter, in more ways than just blood. She believed as he did. She detested the senseless violence. She believed in a better way. But being the daughter of a council member, and now the daughter of the Emperor did little to convince the men that ruled.

“Will you be seeing Alexandria today?”

Clarke shifted her focus to her handmaiden in the reflection. “You can call her Lexa, Niylah,” Clarke smiled. “And yes, why do you ask?”

Niylah appeared to shrug softly, her attention on her hands. “You always seem uneasy when we leave for the games,” she stated simply. “But I’ve noticed it’s different on the days when the Commander will be on the balcony with you. You’re more at peace.”

“That’s very perceptive of you.”

“I’m sorry, Your Majesty,” Niylah inclined her head. “I don’t mean to pry.”

“It’s okay. I know you don’t mean any harm by it.”

Niylah seemed to relax, placing the finishing touches to the various twists and knots on the robe. “You’re done.”

Clarke took in her reflection fully, taking a deep breath to calm her nerves. “Thank you, Niylah.”

“You’re welcome,” she bid, and left Clarke’s chambers without another word to ready herself for the day’s event.

Clarke knew she could trust Niylah with her life. She could never imagine her handmaiden betraying her loyalty. She was tied to the Empire just as Lexa was. They grew up around each other much in the same way as Clarke and Wells. But the notion that Clarke wasn’t being as outwardly careful as she had thought with her feelings toward the Commander sent a heaviness to her stomach. One she tried to breathe through before she would have to leave the palace walls.

The walk to the Colosseum always felt like a funeral procession to Clarke. And in many ways it was. That was the only guarantee on the days when the games were held, that as soon as she walked through those gates and ascended the stairs to the balcony, that death would soon follow. Niylah was correct in that respect that the days when Lexa would be there by her side rather than on the sandy arena floor were easier to bear. It was a small solace in the face of the brutality of the games.

Niylah returned shortly after to escort Clarke, both women descending the wide stone stairs at the front of the palace. Marcus and Abigail had already descended before them, the royal procession surging onto the busy street. There were palace guards stationed just beyond the gate, and a half a dozen legionnaires waiting at the bottom, ready to take them to the Colosseum.

Clarke’s heart lifted as soon as her eyes landed on Lexa, the woman standing tall in her Imperial armour, waiting with the other soldiers. The palace was closer to the arena than the training yards, so on days when Lexa wasn’t fighting, Clarke would find her waiting for her. In the back of her mind she knew she was waiting for the Emperor, to walk beside him as his champion. But Clarke let herself believe the contrary; that her love was there for her, and only her.

Lexa bowed her head in greeting as Clarke merged into the crowd, that smile once again taking her breath away. She couldn’t deny how good she looked. Her long brown hair was braided intricately with bronze clips, and cascaded down her back in soft waves. Her eyes were lined in thick charcoal, making them appear like the most vivid of light greens in the sunlight.

Clarke was reminded of her discussion with Marcus, about keeping Lexa on after her freedom was granted. She let her mind wander for a moment about Lexa being her guard, her protector, instead of Nathan. Having the woman’s eyes on her instead of his, and not having to explain to anyone, or justify it. To have Lexa by her side every day. It was a thought that threatened to carry her away.

But for now, Nathan stood at her side, Niylah at her other shoulder as they moved steadily through the streets, the Colosseum looming in the distance. Clarke stole glances at Lexa whenever she could, until the moment they would reach the high arched entrance of the arena. Every time she looked her way, Lexa standing by Marcus’ side, Clarke was brought back to the night they shared almost a week prior. To those eyes burning over every inch of Clarke, and making her feel like she was Lexa’s sole reason for existence.

It was Niylah that brought her back. It was a small gesture, the woman’s fingers circling her wrist and grounding her. Clarke hadn’t realised how lost in her own thoughts she had been, her handmaiden pulling her out just as they’d reached the stone stairway that led to the balcony. Clarke could now hear the deafening roar of the crowd, the people of Rome already inside. Her heart picked up, the full weight now sinking to the pit of her stomach.

Once she’d ascended, Clarke took her seat to the right of the Emperor, Lexa assuming her position to his left. Titus, another senator on the Council, was the announcer of the day’s games. He was Marcus’ key advisor after her father’s passing. He was his polar opposite in every way. He supported the games completely, believing them to be a necessary sacrifice for the peace of Rome. Clarke wondered whether he actually saw the people that died on the arena floor below as people, or just things, disposable and replaceable things to be discarded like common waste. The thought alone tasted metallic in her mouth.

His deep voice boomed out over the crowd, calling for silence. The onlookers hushed to a low simmer, captivated. Gustus’ gladiators were due to fight in the day’s event. It was something that granted Clarke a small level of comfort. She always found that Lexa was less tense on the days when Indra’s warriors were not due out on the sand. Clarke knew of her tie to them, how they were like family to her, and how when she did fight with others’, she did so with them by her side.

Clarke noticed, as the heavy iron gates rose and the gladiators took to the floor, that the man from the training yard was among them. His frame was hulking, anger apparent in every swing of his sword. Clarke only recognised him from that day with Lexa, and not by name. She remembered back to the week prior when Lexa attacked him, watching her defend her honour, and the way no other gladiator or owner stepped in when it came to the Commander. She held the respect of everyone.

It made Clarke wonder once again why Marcus was yet to free her. How much more did she have to prove?

As the last man fell, lifeless and bloody, Clarke rose from her chair and took the few steps into the darkened corridor to catch her breath. It never got easier, bearing witness to it all. She was always one of the first to leave, and even more so when Lexa was in the arena, Clarke not able to show her emotions in front of the crowd as blatantly as she felt them. As a representative of the Empire she could never be seen to show decent or lack faith in the decisions made by the Emperor. To do so would be seen as treason. So she stole herself away, taking a moment to herself before she would have to re-join her family back to the palace, and before she would have to force a smile to her lips for the people of Rome.

And then Clarke saw her, blue meeting green in the dim light. Lexa pulled in near and slipped her hand gently into Clarke’s in the secrecy of the tight corridor. She felt those fingers squeeze gently in a calming gesture that made Clarke want to pull her closer. To have her in the way she did the other night. She knew it was a dangerous game to want to go back, to slip out of the palace in the dead of night to lay with her once again.

It clawed at her until Lexa’s fingers slipped from her grasp, and Clarke was left standing alone in the shadows, the roll of the crowd flooding back to her ears.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know I’ve placed a tag on this fic already, but just wanted to let people know that there are planned minor character deaths in future chapters. So if that’s not what you signed up for, I understand.


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